


Electric Aqua

by barelyaconcept



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: Established Relationship, Gender Norms, M/M, Peter with nail polish, just me rambling, just thinking about how space doesn't seem to be very enlightened, sorta gender norms-ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-07
Updated: 2015-06-07
Packaged: 2018-04-03 08:31:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4094077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barelyaconcept/pseuds/barelyaconcept
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter's got a day or two to himself, and he plans to spend it relaxing and being a little more himself, but Rocket interrupts.</p><p>In which Peter Quill informs Rocket about nail polish (varnish? lacquer?) and the author uses that as an excuse to explore some gender norms in the GotG 'verse.<br/>Rated for discussion of gender-y... stuff.  Nothing explicit or even very complicated, sorry.</p><p>Also, if the counter is correct, this is the 144th Peter/Rocket fic!  We now have a gross of Roquill-Pocket-Rockstar fic! yaay!!! :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Electric Aqua

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, anyone who actually knows anything about like gender politics and the binary and everything should probably avoid this. I know next to nothing about what I speak and this little almost-fic stems from a couple semesters of WGST classes and my own considerations of wibbly-wobbly-gendery-stuff. Like I think it's a valid approach, but it's defs not the most informed approach, and I'm (sorta) coming at the issue from the opposite side that I'm familiar with. Also, hey, if you wanna discuss this, I'd love to hear it!  
> Also, it has been pointed out to me that there actually isn't very much gender-y anything in here, so if you're looking for someone who actually knows how to deal with gender-fluidity... I don't. :/ I don't even know how to label myself most days, so I guess I shouldn't start labeling fictional characters. Sorry, y'all!  
> Edit: A brief note on airlocks: In the context of this story, at least, I assume that airlocks/doors can be locked from inside, but codes are used instead of keys. (Rather like Star Trek.) Not really important to this story, except that yes Peter can lock the door, but with Rocket’s codes, he is able to get in. Peter was just working under the assumption that Rocket was off-ship, so that shouldn’t have been an issue. Sorry, I feel like if I was a good storyteller I wouldn’t have to give context outside of the fic, but it might not make sense without it.  
> :)

Peter’s just finishing up the nail on his ring finger when the whoosh of an airlock -- an airlock that had been _locked_ , gorramit -- makes him jump. He’s fumbling for the open bottle of polish as it teeters on the edge of the table, barely catching it in the left hand, undoubtedly smudging the paint from the finished nails all over everything, but he doesn’t have time to worry about that because he’s looking up, tucking the bottle and brush under the table between him and the door and attempting to get the brush back into the bottle so he can close it and hide it somewhere and --

 _Shit._ It’s Rocket, which (while that’s not exactly a surprise, what with his unrestricted access to their shared quarters) is very much a Problem. The table isn’t much of a barrier to his line of sight and he’s certainly not hesitating on the threshold at all.

“Uh. Hey, Rocket! What’s up? I missed you, but I thought you were going to be planetside until at least tomorrow. Wrap everything up early?” Peter prays that the shadows are hiding his hands as he tucks the bottle of bright-blue polish between the bed and the frame. He curls his left hand into a fist and sweeps it up in front of his face and uses his pinkie to swipe at the hair that’s only sort-of in his eyes.

Rocket is eyeing him a little cur, like he can tell that something’s up but doesn’t know what yet. “Missed you, too. The broker fell through, got picked up by the fuzz, if the rumor mill has it right. Figured there was no reason to hang around if we weren’t gonna get paid, so we dragged it back in. Left Groot in the galley, think he’s eating all the Xandarian cheese puffs,” Rocket’s grin was a wry twist of lips and Peter’s stomach gives a lurch as Rocket jumps up onto the bed next to him and crawls up into his lap.

It’s not often that Rocket is voluntarily demonstrative with Peter and Peter wishes that this were any other situation ever because he’d be absolutely ecstatic at this development if it weren’t for the blue polish smeared across his nails and palm and _oh no where had he left the rest of it --_ oh. No, it’s fine, it’s still tucked into the top of the closet. He’d planned on taking his time, letting the polish dry while he watched a holo or something, hadn’t planned on showing his face outside their quarters at all until late tomorrow.

Rocket cocks his head and Peter is momentarily distracted by the squishy feelings that particular mannerism calls up in him. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on, now? It’s fine, you know. Except I really hope you’re not ingesting whatever smells like that. It’s got to be toxic, Peter, you can’t just eat anything you get your hands on.”

Peter grins down at him then, and hopes that it looks genuine instead of sickly. “It’s... I don’t know, Rocket, I was... Cleaning earlier? Cleaning the refresher, the shower was clogged again. And then I was recalibrating my blaster. So that’s probably it. I don’t even smell it anymore!” Peter tries really fucking hard to look innocent, though he thinks his voice might have gotten a little squeaky and desperate there at the end. He can tell Rocket’s not buying it, though, and he’s not really sure what to do next. Maintain his denial? Admit that he was painting his nails and pass it off as manly curiosity?

Jeez, he should have known better. He knows that there are plenty of planets that are “liberal” enough (if that’s even the word he’s looking for) that no-one cares what someone does or wears as long as they don’t kill too many people or sell slaves or anything, but... He’s never been the most law-abiding of people, and he doesn’t have the benefit of a community with cushy social mores. The company he’s used to generally follow the opposite of standard social codes of conduct. He’s pretty sure that if they can’t even deal with someone being Terran -- or being small and furry, for that matter -- fighting gender norms is absolutely out of the question.

“Peter.” A small hand reaches up to Peter’s cheek and he opens his eyes to meet the warm brown that has become so familiar over the last few months. Rocket pats his cheek gently and then removes the hand, using both hands to reach for Peter’s left arm, tugging gently.

Peter relents, pulls the clenched fist from behind Rocket’s back and rests it gently against Rocket’s thigh. He looks away as he uncurls his fingers, refusing to see the look in Rocket’s face as he takes in the secret Peter has been keeping for the last decade or so.

Rocket slides his hands down Peter’s forearm, the soft-rough of the pads catching slightly on the hairs there, and lifts Peter’s inner wrist to his mouth. He bumps his nose against it, makes a _smack_ ing noise reminiscent of an animated-cartoon-kiss and then nibbles delicately at the skin across intricately-woven tendons and veins.

“Pete, I really don’t understand. You’re... Painting? But badly? And you’re, what, ashamed? What are you even painting on?”

Peter looks back at him then, a little incredulous. “I... not painting. I mean, yes, but. My nails. Painting my nails. They’re all smeary because they didn’t dry before you came in and... yeah.” He’s still not sure exactly what Rocket’s thinking, but it’s obvious that Peter forgot that Rocket isn’t exactly a law-abiding citizen either, and may or may not know everything about super-normal things like nail polish.

“I... Okay. OH! Like, like how sometimes Gamora’s nails are pink? I... That’s weird, I didn’t actually realize that was paint. Hmm. You’d think I would’ve noticed the smell by now. Rocket’s looking down at Peter’s hand again for a second, studying the pattern of blue smeared across the palm.

Peter chokes out a chuckle and God he hopes he can make it through the rest of this conversation without crying because that would just fucking _make_ his day, really. “Yeah, like Gamora’s. She doesn’t like the smell either. She takes it down to the storage unit and cycles the air when she’s done. It’s... kind of... a... female-ish... thing. Not that it _is_ really, it’s just a thing but lots of people consider it a strictly-feminine activity and then that’s seen as generally demeaning, for a guy to do something like that, even though they claim to not care about a person’s gender because Gamora could cut them in half with her _brain_ , but you know people are whatever and I guess I’m just kind of not --”

“Hey, Peter,” Rocket cuts him off and Peter realises that he really should have stopped for breath somewhere in there because he’s a little dizzy.

“Y-yeah?”

“You got any more of this stuff?”

“I... Really? Yeah, I do, but I need to take that off first, it’ll look horrible.” He darts a glance from under his lashes at Rocket. Rocket’s smiling at him, a little bemused, a little confused, but also a little indulgent and a lot interested.

“Tell me where, then, or go get it. Sounds like I have a lot to learn.”

Peter can’t help the ridiculous grin that takes over his face, so he tucks it into the fur between Rocket’s ears and just holds on.

“Hey, Rocket?” he mumbles into the hair.

“Yeah, Pete?” Peter can actually hear the toothy smile in his mate’s voice.

“You’re the best.”

“Mmhm, I know. Love you, too.”

 

 


End file.
